


hope on this side of the grave

by nishta



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Past Lavellan/Solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 05:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishta/pseuds/nishta
Summary: Two years after the disbanding of the Inquisition, Cullen and Gil'ana find themselves happily married and secreted away from the world in the vast farmlands of Fereldan. Things can never stay so simple for long, though, and Gil'ana finds herself struggling to accept the fact that she might be pregnant.





	hope on this side of the grave

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an at-work daydream about Cullen finding out that he was going to be a dad. It was supposed to be sweet, I swear. But it did get a little angsty along the way.

The changes start small.

First come the nightmares: they creep into her bed at night, wringing a cold sweat from her brow and sticking her spine to the sheets. Night after night, she finds herself back in Haven, shaking in the bitter snowfall as she screams for her companions to run. She sees Fiona’s corrupted body at her feet, blood indistinguishable from the lyrium that breaks from her body. Varric, Cassandra, and Solas look at her with disgust; she looks down and sees blood on her hands, fire on her arms, and where Fiona’s body once was now lies _Cullen_ , red lyrium exploding from his shoulders as he gasps for breath. Her staff spears his heart, and he spits blood at her feet. Corypheus laughs behind her, low and rumbling, clawed hand grasping her shoulder as he taunts her. His dragon stalks toward her from across the snow, and Ana sees Cassandra’s headless corpse hanging limp in its jaws. She screams, feels herself falling, reaching—

Cullen’s hands are on her, big and warm on her shoulders as he tries to shake her from the throes of her nightmare. “Ana,” he says, one hand reaching to palm her cheek. He turns her face to his, eyes scanning for any sign of hurt or injury.

Slowly, she drifts back to him, grounding herself against the weight of his hands, the concern pulling at his face. Through the haze she counts the wrinkles that crease his forehead, follows the lines to his brows and then to his warm, brown eyes, wide with worry. Her mind settles back inside her body, calming the shudders that wrack her arms. She feels tears on her cheeks.

“Ana?” Cullen says. 

She drinks the warmth from his hands, reaches for his naked chest. Her jaw is locked shut, teeth clenched tight. She traces the scar beneath his collarbone, the knots smooth beneath her finger. She’s done this a thousand times; she uses it to remind himself that he’s here, that he’s _real_ , that he sits next to her on the bed they’ve shared every night for the last two years.

“I—” She clears her throat, working her jaw. “A nightmare,” she manages.

She watches Cullen smile, small and relieved, despite himself. “I know,” he says, brushing tears from her cheeks. He pulls her to him, cradling her against his chest. “The usual?” he asks, as he threads his fingers through her hair.

Ana pauses. _No_ , she thinks. She hadn’t been to Haven in more than a year; her nightmares, fewer now than they had ever been, more often put her at the mercy of Fen’Harel. To face Corypheus again—to see Cullen, corrupted and bloody at her feet—

“Ana,” Cullen says. “Are you still with me?”

She nods against his chest, tracing a familiar scar just above the swell of his ass. His shiver pulls a laugh from her, weak though it is. “I’m fine,” she says, sounding certain enough.

Cullen pauses long enough to let her know he doesn’t believe her, but instead of pushing her, he says, “Good.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, wrapping his arms around her body. She melts into him, relishing the cage of his big body against her own. How she had ever found his size intimidating is lost to her now; she curls against his chest, breathing in the smell of him. _Hers_ , human though he was.

“I love you,” she murmurs against his skin. He shivers as she presses a kiss to his sternum, lips brushing the white skin of another scar.

“I love you, too,” he says. Then, quieter: “You’re safe here.”

“I know,” she says, and she believes him.

 

—

 

Then comes the vertigo, and with it, the nausea. She notices it first when she’s walking Rook, the stray mabari Cullen had so enthusiastically brought back from the Winter Palace. Cullen’s nephew had named him after a particularly grueling chess match against the Commander; Cullen claimed he threw the match, and Ana _believed_ him, but watching young Duncan capture Cullen’s king with a lowly rook had caused her to laugh for far too long. It was one of the first times she’d allowed herself to laugh so freely since she had been declared Inquisitor—a title she no longer needed to carry. They’d had Rook for almost two years now, but Ana could still picture the flush that had crept up Cullen’s neck as she and Mia had teased him, _relentlessly_ , for the rest of the evening.

Decades of military training have loosened their hold on Cullen, now that he no longer leads the forces of the largest army in Thedas. Ana frequently wakes before he does, quietly slipping out of bed and greeting Rook at the door to their bedroom. On most mornings, Ana takes a walk around their farm, Rook at her side. She watches the sun rise over the tops of the trees that ring their property, listens as the birds herald the coming of a storm or another sunny day. She’s softer now that she doesn’t need to be a weapon of the Inquisition, but she often misses the physical strain of daily training. She plays with Rook in the fields behind their cosy Fereldan farmhouse, throwing his favorite bone and wrestling with him on the ground when he quickly loses interest in toys. 

As the sun slowly rises, she waits for Cullen to wake. He appears, mussed and sleepy, in the back window, just as the sun peeks above the roof of their home. She waves at him, a bright smile on her face, and she sees him laugh and shake his head. Rook bounds towards him, tail wagging wildly, and she races to catch up.

But the world spins as she turns, and she finds herself reaching with her one remaining hand to steady herself against the trunk of a tree. Rook glances back, slowing only slightly before Cullen steps outside. “G’morning,” Cullen says, voice still slurred with sleep. He makes his way toward her, Rook trailing happily behind him. 

Ana smiles in return, ignoring the nausea that curls in her gut. “Good morning, love,” she says, steadier than she was a moment ago. She drops her hand from the trunk of the tree, reaching for Cullen. She breathes him in, relishing the heat of the sunrise on her skin and the headbutt Rook gives her hip. She has always had a difficult time accepting happiness, but she forces herself now. She fought hard for this little family of hers.

“Did you sleep well?” Cullen asks her as he reaches down to pat Rook’s head. “It sounded like you slept through the night.”

“I did,” she says. “A nice change for both of us, I think.” Her heart still flutters when Cullen smiles up at her.

“Good.” He kneels in front of Rook, scratching his ears and grunting as the mabari licks his face. “I was starting to get worried, to be honest.”

“Don’t,” she says. “You and I have both seen enough to suffer nightmares occasionally.” She doesn’t mention that Cullen’s have mostly faded, especially after his recovery from withdrawal. Hers had begun to slow, too, until a couple of weeks ago. Now she was lucky if she made it two nights without waking up, screaming and crying, in the middle of the night.

“That’s true enough,” Cullen admits. “I just hate to see you like that.”

Ana smiles. “I know.” She runs her hand through his golden curls, drawing a shudder from him as she scratches behind his ear. “You and Rook continue to have a lot in common,” she teases.

He shakes himself free, standing. He dwarfs her, a full head and a half taller than her lithe elven body. She can’t help but giggle as he presses her against the tree, one hand finding her waist as the other supports his weight against the trunk. Barely sunrise, it’s already warm, and she can feel the heat of Cullen’s palm through the thin linen of her shirt. He presses a kiss to her forehead, chaste and sweet, and rubs a thumb against her hip.

Ana watches Cullen’s eyes flutter shut as he leans to rest his forehead against hers. She mirrors the deep breath he takes, bumping his nose with her own. “Still with me?” she asks.

A chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Yes,” he says, opening his eyes again. He grins, boyish. “Maker, why would I ever be anywhere else?”

She flushes. Almost four years of such genuine, unabashed complements, and she still hasn’t gotten used to them. “You _are_ rather lucky,” she says, teasing again. 

He leans in and brushes his lips against hers, fingers squeezing her hip again as he moves to cradle the back of her head with his other hand. She melts into him, allowing him to control the kiss; his tongue flickers against her lips, sweet and soft, questing more than demanding. She loves him like this: confident, content, comfortable. _Free_ , she thinks.

Ana hums against him, placing her hand flat against his chest. As she pulls back, he chases her lips, and she giggles. “As much as I would _love_ to continue this,” she says, mouth quirking, “I believe your dog is getting impatient.”

Cullen blinks once, twice, and glances down at Rook. The dog dances eagerly about his legs, nuzzling Cullen’s hand and moving toward the house with a pointed look. Cullen drops his hand from Ana’s hip, rubbing it over his face. “Breakfast time,” he mutters, and grudgingly takes a step back. “Maker’s breath, why did you let me get a mabari, again?”

Ana laughs and rolls her eyes. “Like you could have been dissuaded,” she chides.

He fixes her with a teasing glare. “You could have at least tried.”

“Oh, and what would you have had me say?” She laughs. “‘Oh, Cullen, I know we just publicly declared our love for each other, but could you please not bring home that abandoned, love-lorn mabari puppy? The one thing you’ve _always wanted_?’”

Cullen purses his lips. “I have not _always_ wanted a mabari puppy. I’ve wanted plenty of other things, too.”

“ _Sure_ ,” she says, grinning. “You know, you lost your ability to lie when you introduced me to Mia,” she reminds him.

He considers this as they walk back to the house. “A fair point,” he concedes.

She bumps him with her shoulder. “I’m rather good at those,” she says.

“Hmm,” is all he says, but he nudges her back.

Rook wags his tail eagerly just inside the house, nudging his food bowl toward the two of them. Ana thinks about how he’d looked when they’d first brought him back to Fereldan, staying with Mia and her husband as they built their own house. His coat had been sparse and gray, full patches of hair missing. He’d had a tear in one ear, a scar from a bite mark on his haunches. He was hesitant around everyone except for Cullen, even Ana. He’d pushed her from the bed more than once in those early days, taking her place at Cullen’s side and nuzzling against his sleeping, oblivious form. She’d been upset at first, almost _jealous_ , until she’d caught Cullen nuzzle back, throwing an arm across the dog and pulling the quilt up to covers its shivering body. She could let them have that, she’d thought. They’d just build a bigger bed.

And build a bigger bed they had. Sort of. If she had taken anything with her from her time as the Inquisitor, it was a deep and abiding love for _beds_. She’d grown up with cots and stuffed mats, and at the time, that had been enough for her. But then Josie had gotten her hands on Skyhold, and as a special treat, had imported a rather ridiculously oversized feather bed, stuffed with the softest down and dressed in silk sheets and satin blankets.

Ana’s first night in the bed had been life-changing, to say the least.

It was the last favor she had asked of Josie: that bed, but _bigger_. The best mattress Inquisition money could buy, big enough to hold the Commander of the Inquisition and his mabari, with Ana tucked somewhere in between. She and Cullen had agreed to live a life without extravagance, but she’d been…persuasive. Surely he could compromise, she’d said. And so he had.

She watches him mix food into Rook’s bowl, admiring the flex of his still-taut muscles as he does so. Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the thin scars that criss-cross on his body, covering almost every inch of his back and chest. Many were small, inconsequential; wounds he’d shrugged off in the heat of battle, soothing with little more than a health potion or an elfroot salve. But there were other, deeper scars, the ones she traced with her fingers and lips many nights. Cullen had been self-conscious at first, always more content to focus on _her_ and her own pleasure than himself. But she’d worn him down, little by little, spending long nights awake in his bed, exploring his body by the moonlight that crept through the hole in his ceiling. She had teased him for that, too.

They have a comfortable life, now. As much as Ana misses Dorian, and Varric, and Cassandra, she is never more content than she is simply _existing_ with Cullen. Waking up by his side, morning after morning, his big, strong body cradling her own. Kissing his cheeks, his lips, his chest. Learning every part of his body, every part of _him_ , drinking him in as they settle into a life all their own. Here, in this cottage, they are little more than Gil’ana and Cullen. Never mind that she is elven and he human, nor that she was and always would be the Inquisitor, and he the Commander of her armies. The trauma and horror of war, of past lives, cannot reach them here.

And if she had her way, they would stay this way forever.

 

—

 

The final change is innocent enough on its own.

She has Cullen with his back to the bed, big hands on her hips as she straddles his waist. He’s been teasing her all day: fleeting caresses of her back, thighs, waist; gentle swats at the curve of her ass; lingering, just-too-chaste kisses, pressed against her lips before he slides out of reach. In the early days of their relationship—for most of their time at Skyhold— _teasing_ had been her job, tasked with convincing him, time after time, that she wanted him, chose him, actively _desired_ him.

Yet here they are now, a self-satisfied smirk playing on the edges of Cullen’s lips as he rubs and squeezes. His sword-calloused thumbs trail over the delicate flesh of her inner thighs, a wry knuckle grazing her damp heat. She groans and he chuckles, entirely too happy as he pulls an arm away to tuck beneath his head. His gaze lingers hot on her body.

“I’ve created a monster,” she says, meaning it. “Who are you and what have you done with Cullen Rutherford?” She shifts against him, using her hand against his chest to steady herself. When he squeezes her ass, she sends a gentle surge of electricity through his fingers, and he yelps.

Ana has but a moment to blink before the world spins and he flips them over, settling his hips against her own. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to her pulse point and she shudders in time with the deep throb of her cunt. Using her legs to draw him closer, she rolls her hips against the swell of his cock, delighting in the growl it pulls from him.

“Maker’s breath, woman,” Cullen breathes against her neck. She rolls her hips again, a slick slide against his breeches. If he insists on being clothed, she thinks, this is what she’ll give him.

“Pants,” she says, gasping as he trails a hand down her stomach. “Off.”

“All in due time,” he replies. She kicks at his ass with her heel, dissatisfied.

“Cullen,” she says. “ _Fuck me_.”

She smiles when his breath hitches. He may be more confident than he was, but he’s still just as predictable.

He pulls back, a mischievous glint in his eyes that she thoroughly distrusts. He moves slowly, pulling at the drawstring of his breeches. He maintains eye contact as he does it, one brow raised. Ana scoffs, loathe to admit how it affects her. A flush travels down her body as she watches Cullen undress, pulling his shirt over his head. Her hand mirrors his own, drawing small circles over her stomach as he begins to step out of his pants.

Finally, just as she’s begun to thread her fingers through the wet of her curls, Cullen returns to her. _Naked_. She up presses against him as he crawls over her, nipples taut against his chest. The friction stings, briefly, easy to ignore as he descends onto her mouth, tongue parting her lips. His cock drags against her thigh, wet and eager.

Afraid he might deign to tease her even longer than he already has, Ana grabs at Cullen’s cock and lines it up, shifting so that the head pushes just pass the folds of her cunt. She’s wet, _sopping_ , has been all day; her cunt accepts him with a greedy throb. He groans above her, mouth gone limp against hers, and begins to thrust.

Ana wails as he fully enters her, sheathes himself inside of her body with one smooth motion. Despite how many times they’ve done this—how many times she’s taken him, split herself open on his cock, cried out for more—he still stretches her, almost to the point of pain, as he fits himself inside of her. Drunkenly, wildly, she remembers their first time, how he’d been so cute and worried that _it wouldn’t fit_ —how he’d underestimated her.

But then he thrusts again, pulls _all the way out_ and pushes back in, swallowing her cries. Her legs find their way over his shoulders, desperately seeking a deeper angle. His shoulders shift under her knees, effectively bending her in half as he devours her. After an eternity, one hand finds them where they are joined; Cullen shivers and moans as his fingers spread her lips where they swallow him. His hips stutter and he dives to lick at her throat, her collarbone, trailing heated kisses down her chest until he takes a nipple into his mouth and _sucks_ —

“ _Shit_ ,” Ana cries, hand scrambling to push his head away. He stills immediately, almost pulling out as he glances up at her. His eyes are wide with concern.

“What?” he says, almost panicked. “What happened? Did I do something?” He begins to slide her legs off of his shoulders before she stops him.

“No, it just—” She winces. “It hurt,” she says, sheepish.

Cullen’s brows furrow, but he nods. “It doesn’t normally, does it?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’ve just been a little…tender, lately.”

Cullen nods again, pressing a delicate kiss against the swell of her breast. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against her. Then, meeting her eyes again, he asks, “Are you alright to continue, or do you want to stop?”

She knows he would do whatever she asked of him in this moment, knows he would forego his own pleasure in order to make her happy, and the thought alone causes her to clench against his cock, still half-buried inside of her. She smiles at his grimace, the way he steels his shoulders as if ready to remove himself.

“No,” she says, baring her neck to him. A challenge, if not also an invitation. “I still want you.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen whispers, though his hands are still light where they touch her body. Slowly, he begins to thrust back into her, eyes fluttering closed as he bottoms out once more.

Ana shivers, pulls him down for a kiss as his thrusts grow in urgency. He’s careful to avoid her breasts, she notices, a simple gesture that has her melting and moaning into his mouth. Her fingers reach to circle her clit, crying out when Cullen adjusts her legs on his shoulders to hit _deeper_.

She rides every thrust of his cock, can feel the thrum of her heartbeat in her cunt. She shivers, squeals, arches from the bed as he fucks her to orgasm, her toes curling behind his head and a long wail escaping from between her lips. Hazily, she feels him shudder alongside her, thrusts growing erratic as he burries his face in her neck, stubble scraping against her pulse point.

Slowly, the aftershocks leave her body, and Cullen’s weight grows too oppressive to bear. She giggles as she shoves him off of her, ignoring the groan of protest as he shifts to his side.

“Heavy,” she says, but presses a kiss to his forehead. She brushes her hand through his damp curls, springy and soft now that he no longer so obsessively styles them.

“Hmph,” he replies, throwing an arm across her and pulling her close. She settles against his chest, content in the slick-slide of their drying skin against each other. She’ll clean up later, she thinks, wiggling as Cullen’s seed begins to leak onto her thigh. For now, she’s happy simply with her ear to Cullen’s chest, rocked into an almost-sleep by the gentle thumping of his heartbeat against her cheek.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, just as she feels Cullen’s breath mellow into sleep.

But sleep evades her; instead, it is nausea that finds her. It keeps her awake, not strong enough to force her to run outside but not so subtle as to let her sleep. She tosses and turns, shifting out from under Cullen’s heavy arm as she seeks cooler air. She’s uncomfortable in their bed for the first time in a long while; she feels Cullen’s dried seed crack against her thighs as she kicks the blankets off. She shivers.

Careful not to wake either Cullen or his dog, Ana tiptoes out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. She grabs a cloth and warms the basin of water with a hastily muttered spell, pausing briefly light a candle. The flicker of the flame casts eerie shadows on the walls as she cleans her thighs and hand. She feels like she could crawl out of her skin, each touch hyper-realized and nauseating. The hair on her arms stand on end, a strange prickle swirling at the nape of her neck. A feeling she cannot place coils in her stomach, foreign as it mixes with a growing nausea. She gags.

The world spins as she darts down the hall, barely reaching the back door in time. Bile rises in her throat and she braces herself against the doorframe, heaving. Finally, almost a relief, she vomits onto the ground, hiccuping as her stomach spasms and her chest clenches. Barely a moment to catch her breath, her stomach empties itself again, forcing stomach acid through her nose. 

A moment passes. Her stomach roils and threatens to spill itself again, just as her nose and mouth burn. She coughs, struggling to breathe, but after a beat realizes that she’s done. For now, at least.

The danger passes and she sighs, suddenly exhausted. The world spins as her eyes flutter closed, and she leans her full weight against the doorframe.

_Shit_ , she thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of three, I think, with a possible epilogue. Thanks for going on this journey with me!


End file.
